


Bicentenary

by unavoidablekoishi



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Doomed Timeline, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Calamity Ganon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidablekoishi/pseuds/unavoidablekoishi
Summary: What shines through, from the other side of the wall, is absolutely nothing at all.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Bicentenary

There’s a brief and familiar consciousness that occurs just before the darkness begins to fade. It’s a moment to be savoured. An experience of gentle tranquility- the calm before the storm. 

There’s no soothing voice to rouse him from his slumber. There’s no gentle touch to bring him back to consciousness. There’s only the vague sensation of flickering eyelashes, before the light begins to ebb into view.

* * *

The liquid that barely encases this body, ripples as it moves. It’s a light and forgiving shade of blue. Cool and calm- it would almost look like water, if the viscosity wasn’t disturbingly thick. It pulses around every breath taken, wrapping around every muscle, almost as if gently penetrating the skin. However, as the body heaves and the eyes flutter open, the fluid begins to drain.

The room is cold. It’s not an empty, crisp cold. It’s a dense and obtrusive cold. It’s a thick chill that seems to cake the walls, the floors- everything. There’s not a hint of warmth to be found, other than from the body in the receptacle, and even that won’t last too long.

He sits up. 

Even more eerie than the disturbingly thick fluid he’d been submerged in just a moment ago, his skin and his hair dry far quicker than it normally should do. Rather than being left with a slick sheen of moisture coating the pale, rosy skin, it’s like paper. Rather than being left with a dripping mess of hair, once golden, now stained brown and clumped together, it flickers out in all angles, shining pale under an imperceptible source of light.

The energy behind the eyes, blue enough to rival the solution that had seemingly kept him alive, makes it seem like he’d never even been unconscious.

There’s no reason for him to get out of the receptacle. There’s no thought that comes to mind to prompt him to leave. His body merely moves that way, as if powered by an unknown force. At least, that’s how he’s beginning to see it. He wonders where this urge is coming from, as he realises his memory is void. There’s enough in there for him to know that he’s missing something, but not enough for him to remember what it could be. 

And, on top of that, he wonders what is so compelling about the pedestal sitting innocently on the other side of the room. Somehow, it beckons him, and he’s unable to accurately describe the experience, even to himself.

Left with not much else to do, and no thoughts to think, he approaches the pedestal with no guard or suspicion whatsoever. It shines a mesmerising blue, piercing through the dim lighting of the room. As he stops in front of it, the pedestal suddenly emits a harsh burst of light.

He watches, face plain, as the pedestal begins to morph and rotate. The inner circle protrudes from the panel, turns, and suddenly flicks upwards. After that, it ceases to move, and he’s left to stare at the odd rectangle that’s tempting him to take it. 

The orange glow it emits is much warmer than the brazen blue he’s been used to up until now. Against the chill of the room, and the piercing sting on the soles of his feet, part of him wishes it would offer him a source of warmth. Even the colour alone is enough to warm his spirits.

He tentatively reaches out and pulls it from the pedestal. He has no conceivable idea what this little rectangle is, but something about it just feels… it doesn’t even feel familiar, but it feels like it has a place in his life somewhere. It feels like it belongs in his hands.

To his surprise, the rectangle flashes, and the pedestal it once came from begins to rotate back into its original position. The first expression to register on his face in one of surprise. As this happens, the room begins to quake, and a portion of the wall beside the door retracts upwards. It leaves a doorway that’s even more tempting than the mysterious rectangle.

The trembling sensation nips against the soles of his feet as he tears himself away from the panel, heading towards the open gap in the wall. For a dim and sinister looking area, there was something remarkably secure about it all. He didn’t feel in danger in the slightest, even if things had a tendency to move without his involvement.

The next room over is a bit more interesting. The walls are still plastered with the same patterns and markings as before- and they’ve even managed to find their way onto the rectangle, now that he properly looks at it. Everything seemed to belong here, except for him.

Even the set of clothes he discovers, torn and slightly musty, seem to simply belong here, sitting innocuously in their stone chests. They’re his size, so he takes them. There’s no real reason for him not to, even though he doesn’t remember owning them. He slides the shirt and trousers on, hoping for even a thin layer of something to deflect the bitter, stagnant air of these rooms. It doesn’t provide much relief, but it’s truly better than nothing. 

The only other interesting thing here is another pedestal, standing at the far end of the room, where he can only assume another door is. It glows a bright tangerine colour, identical to the one on the rectangle, prompting him to hold it up and inspect it. For a moment, he stands there, expectantly. However, when nothing happens, he tilts his head. 

The pattern on the pedestal, a set of various circles, looks… actually identical to the one on the slate, now that he gets a closer look at it. He doesn’t waste any time wondering what it all means. Instinct takes over, and he reaches out to place the rectangle atop the pedestal. 

The moment the slate and the panel touch, the pedestal emits a splash of blue light that erases the warmth of the orange it once held. 

The large portion of the wall beside him begins to shudder, before smoothly giving way. It moves so fluidly for a solid material. In fact, he’s not even sure what these things are made of. Too light for stone, too organic for metal- it’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, and it’s certainly nothing he remembers.

As the wall slides away, he hopes to be met with the light of day. The light of freedom. Something to act as a destination. The moment feels so thick, so tense, as he anticipates something new- something to tell him just what is going on. Who is he? Why is he here?

Why does everything feel so heavy? 

The more he walks, the heavier his feet become. 

What shines through, from the other side of the wall, is absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

The short climb up and over a wall, clearly not meant to be there, is a small hurdle. For a glimpse of the world he’s in, his lead feet will eagerly move. His anticipation rises with every ascent, and his desperation flares with every step. The cold that seeps deeper and deeper into his skin will go ignored until he’s able to find what his mind and body subconsciously crave. There’s no thought to tell him that. His body almost seems to move on its own. 

He would regret leaving, if he had the memory for it.

The air outside is colder and thicker than the air within those rooms. It does more than seep into his skin- it prickles at every pore, like needles, threatening to bring the blood flowing through his veins to a stop. There is no breeze, and yet there is something he can feel against his face, as he steps through what could’ve been grass. It flakes like skin under the soles of his feet- with every step, there’s a sickening crunch, until he finds he cannot walk any further.

There’d been nothing out here at all. 

The sky is dark, yet the slight tint of lilac light amongst the sea of deep purple clouds suggests it should be day. The grass under his feet is grey, yet it moves like it’s almost alive. Every step on the dirt is one full of stones and splinters. Any breath could be his last. 

He'd been surprised to see another soul out there. He almost seems misplaced, but there's nowhere else for him to be. That's what those sunken, bland, grey eyes tell him, as they stay rooted against the light of the fire. Curiously, there is no reflection of a flame to be seen in those irises, no matter how intently they gaze upon the tiny inferno. 

There's nothing telling him not to take a seat. Not even the old man. The remnants of a baked apple lay upon the grass, having long since rotted. The delicate aroma of sizzling fruit has, over time, grown into a subtle, yet unpleasant odour, not unlike the dead grass it sits on. He doesn't care to touch it. 

The fire continues to crackle. He can't say anything. He wouldn't be sure where to begin. He fiddles with the fraying hem of his dusty garments, hoping his intrusion into this world is not a disagreeable one.

Much like the old man, there doesn't seem like anywhere for him to be, other than in front of a nameless fire. He wants the old man to talk, if only to hear a voice. 

After a while, the old man speaks. His eyes, however, remain upon the fire. How much more pleasant could the sight of a fire be in comparison to his own face? He's not even sure what he's supposed to look like. Nonetheless, the sound of the old man's voice, crusted with age and worn from disuse, is so relieving that the words nearly pass him by. 

"And who are you supposed to be?" 

He has nothing to say. He has no idea. Was he supposed to be something? He wonders about the incomprehensible urge that spurs his feet to move, and his eyes to seek, but he's not sure what it means. The slight pressure on the back of his skull and the heaviness of his gut- it's normal, for all he knows. 

He says nothing. 

"No, of course you wouldn't know."

The response threatens to unlock more questions than answers, but before he can ponder it, the old man continues. 

"Do you know who I am?" 

He shakes his head. Even through the dark cloak, and the beard that obscured his features, he knows there is no way he will know this man. 

The man is silent for quite a while. He feels it could be rude to move. He has no other place to be. It wouldn't exactly bother him to wait- and the fire offers such tranquility. There is solace in the colour orange, is what he finds. 

"Why did you wake up?" 

He swallows.

Did he need a reason? Was that the law of this world? For all he knows, his reason to wake up was simply to come and sit in front of this very fire. From what he's been able to see, that appears to be the purpose of the old man, too. 

With no answer to give, he remains silent. 

"When people sleep for as long as you have, they do not tend to wake up again."

Part of the burning log crumbles into bits, scattered across the informal fire pit. 

"When people sleep for as long as you have, they don't need to wake up again." 

He blinks. 

For the first time since he arrived, the old man is looking at him. Somehow, it doesn't feel real. It’s almost like he’s looking right through him.

"I often wonder to myself, why it is that I sit here. I had a purpose, once."

He stares firmly at the fire, like the old man had done, and he wonders if the light of the flames will reflect in his eyes. 

"Now that you are here… I

I wonder why I ever stayed. Even when she could not, I remained here, if only to see you."

The innards of the once-baked apple coat the crisp, strands of grass. The smell, though distinct and unlikeable, is somewhat desirable to him. The dull, grey eyes of the old man do not stray from his form. Dim, even in firelight. He fears to check again, to clarify his thoughts. 

"Much like her, there is nothing of you left."

The embers of the fire glow softly, and he realises there cannot be a reflection against eyes that do not exist.

* * *


End file.
